


The Secret Marriage.

by Tammany



Series: The Secret Marriage [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Dom/sub Play, Kink, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Minor Humiliation, Minor Pain., Sub Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 20:23:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20841473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: It has been a LONG time since Mycroft and Greg suggested a kink story.First: this is NOT a Sussex Downs story. I don't think it has any place in that particular AU...or if it does, it's out of sight, out of mind, a private issue that has no bearing on their daily lives and personas.Second--it is kink, BDSM, Dom/sub, and ideally should come across to those in the know as comparatively mild, fully consensual, totally worked out, and comparatively low trope. A dynamic that is needed--but not needed with all the hullabaloo that often goes with a 50 Shades universe. It earns its explicit ranking fair and square. Know that going in.There is unexpected room for more stories later. But--I don't know how I feel about it. I want to think. Meanwhile if you like mild BDSM, Dom/sub Mystrade, come and get it





	The Secret Marriage.

Two songs go with this story. Imagine the relationship as encompassing both in perfect balance.  
  
[The Secret Marriage; Sting](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ofNjeKkE1Y0).  
[The Stranger; Billy Joel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bnlvPoDU5LY)

Mycroft had felt the desire rising for weeks, and fought against it, blushing every time he let himself think what would follow if he gave in to it.

“It.” He still thought of the desire, and the behavior, as “it.” He was uncomfortable with “it.” He succumbed to “it.” He resisted “it.”

In the end he surrendered to “it.” Begged for “it.” Or at least, asked nicely, because his lover was as new to “it” and as uneasy with “it” as Mycroft was.

The truth was, Mycroft thought, real BDSM sorts would probably laugh at them. What they did was so…mild. So nuanced. So lacking in black leather and silk bondage rope. They were both so hesitant to begin a round, and so relieved to be able to end it. They were people of their age. Not only was Mycroft’s occasional longing for, er…meekness…something both saw as a bit of a kink, it was a kink both found entirely unsensual, unseductive in its classic form. And what was BDSM if what you wanted was BDSM without the costumes, the props, the stage settings and furniture, the atmosphere? Their very participation was like Tweety-Bird’s owner being in possession of a cutting-edge racing Bugatti Chiron…not just the sort released to customers, but the actual race cars that spent more time on the track and in the pit than on the road. It always seemed like a cosmic waste of erotic potential.

And, yet…

The need rose in him, a need he had never even known to articulate until he’d had a lover he could trust. A lover who’d pushed him tenderly against a wall and kissed his way down Mycroft’s neck, only slowly realizing his beloved had melted, shaking like an aspen leaf in a high wind, passive under his firm hands… Mycroft had not known enough to know he wanted this.

He wanted it. It wailed and roared and wept inside him like a banshee, begging for manifestation. It gripped his balls and cock in mid-meeting at the slightest subliminal cue, untraceable by the conscious mind, leaving him struggling to desexualize his responses before he had to stand and leave the room, trouser-front tented and blush brighter than Rudolph’s nose flaming on his cheeks. He took to wearing tight, firm pants to work, where he’d normally choose boxers, just to keep the raging erections under some kind of control, like a cross-dressing woman warrior binding her breasts. Anything to keep biology’s unkind little secrets from being deduced.

At last he gave in.

“Anthea, I am unavailable this coming week,” he said, managing a calm indifference to his statement when she finished her daily post-lunch report of the day already, and the tasks to come. “No interruptions for less than Code Crimson.”

“Yes, sir.” He heard the shift of her shoes on the carpet in front of his desk. Then she said, “Shall we arrange the same for Inspector Lestrade, and place it all under the broad heading of ‘family reasons’? It leaves fewer questions.”

Well, yes and no. With no relatives dead on either side there would be quite a lot of conjecture that it was either marital difficulties or what Sherlock bluntly referred to as a “sex holiday.” But there were few lies so effective as the truth. Sex holiday it was.

“Check with Inspector Lestrade first,” he said, making a point of studying the bound file in front of him, flicking a page, and inspecting a graph. “I don’t want to wrong-foot him.”

“As you say, sir.” She closed her own pad, tucked it under her elbow, and strode away, long-legged and elegant, a woman who’d have been as at-home on a fashion catwalk as at the Ritz.

Now he’d made the commitment and set the wheels in motion; now that he’d go home to a husband already guessing what was to come, his body went into overdrive. He felt like one overwhelming hormonal outbreak. Like all puberty condensed into a few days and the space taken up by six foot three and twelve stone. His cock and balls begged to come out and play. His inner thighs quivered and spasmed. His nipples turned into little steel B-Bs, hard on his chest. His lips tingled in anticipation. His hands shook.

Only a few hours before returning home to face his lover.

His firm, understanding lover. His strong lover. His commanding lover.

He could feel the tension coil inside, powerful, intense. It was going to eat him alive someday.

He took the car home, knowing Lestrade was already there. Already had been contacted by Anthea to clear the coming week. Already had been released from duty, at the end of a slow day. Already had driven to the downtown flat—the one they seldom used for anything but this particular game. Already had poured himself a glass of the good single-malt, and made arrangements for a meal.

Lestrade would be ready.

Mycroft left the Jaguar as The British Government. But he keyed himself into the front door as Mike. Perhaps even as Mikey…

“Home, love,” he called, heart pounding in his chest. He’d brought nothing home but the clothes he wore and his private smart phone—the one Anthea would not call for less than Armageddon. No work could claim him. No briefcase had come in to bolster his authority. He walked into the parlor, where Lestrade stood in one of the good suits he refused to wear to work, because “They’re too posh for my job, Mycroft. All they can do is set civilians on edge, raise the hackles of other officers—and put Internal Affairs on my arse.”

He looked good. The suit was ink blue, darker than royal, brighter than navy. It hung on him like royal regalia—or like sex made fabric. It was modern, and sleek, James-Bondish in some ways, sexy celebrity in others, begging for a red carpet event. He was silhouetted against the one-way plate glass window looking over the city, scotch in one hand, the other in his pocket. The sun glinted on silver hair.

He was beautiful. Powerful. Posh without any of the quaint Town and Country antique futz Mycroft intentionally affected. As Mycroft approached, he noticed that he was wearing a stunning black sapphire ring on the ring finger of his right hand… a ring Mycroft had found and purchased for him with exactly this situation in mind. Coupled with the authority of the wedding ring on his left hand, he flaunted the symbols Mycroft accepted as the right to authority over him.

He licked his lips. He had offered his husband—His Husband—dominion. Today, Lestrade was taking it.

God. Yes…

“Hello, Mike,” Lestrade said, turning just enough to watch Mycroft cross the room to stand almost, but not quite before him.

Mycroft stopped short, unsure how he wanted to present himself. He lowered his head. “Greg.” His voice shook.

“Anthea indicated you wanted us to reserve a week. Alone. I assume you have an explanation?”

Of course he had an explanation. Of course Greg knew it. Of course Greg would make him state it. Out loud. It was part of the agreement they’d reached on how this game was played. What worked. What didn’t. What would ruin the illusion for either of them. He had to say it himself. He had to ask for it—himself. He had to request it. Greg could not swagger and loom and make him beg—Mycroft had to initiate his own downfall. It was the first stage of their mutual need that this be voluntary and consensual…

“Yes,” Mycroft said, voice a near whisper, shaking with embarrassment and need. Both were real. He needed this so much. It humiliated him that he needed it. He’d gone most his life as the dominant figure in the limited sexual relationships he maintained—most relationships of convenience. His convenience. It was gut-wrenching to need so completely to give that away, to ask Lestrade to intentionally deny him that power.

“Well?” Lestrade shifted on his feet, and Mycroft, looking down, noted the brilliant gleam of Italian leather in bespoke ankle boots. He thought of lying on the carpet, those boots propped on his naked bum, pinning him in place while Greg watched a movie on the telly…

“I need you to take over,” Mycroft managed. “I need to surrender.”

“Oh?”

“I need you to…” He struggled, but he knew Lestrade would not give him the words. He had to offer them. “I need to belong to you. For you to own me. I need you to use me.”

Both knew how mild the ownership would be—how largely token the use. Both knew that in spite of that, Mycroft needed it with a need that tore him to pieces.

“Own you?”

“Yes.”

“Take your power away?”

“Yes.”

“More?”

“I am your slut, Greg. Please? Make me your slut.”

Lestrade’s eyes met his—a look only Lestrade could give him, sympathy and pride and compassion—and command, and authority, and cold, ruthless ownership. “This is what we’ve talked about.”

“Yes.”

“You can stop any time.”

“Yes. But—I won’t.”

Lestrade nodded, then said, “I want you naked, then, baby. Now.”

Mycroft, shivering, hands almost unable to function, nodded and began.

“Don’t rush…I want to enjoy this,” Lestrade said. He shifted, his pocketed hand coming up and out, arm crossing his chest to support the elbow of his scotch-bearing hand. He shifted slightly contrapposto, one leg bearing his weight, head cocked, watching his lover strip for him.

Mycroft removed his day’s kit one piece at a time. Shoes, removed and set just under the window. Socks followed. Trousers, removed and folded. Tight pants. Then smart-phone, fountain pen, wallet, jacket, watch, watch-chain, fobs. Weskit. Tie pin. Cufflinks. Collar bar. Tie. Shirt. Finally, his snug vest. He folded it all loosely, rather than with the exact, priggish propriety he knew how to use when packing to go overseas, or going to hang it up properly in any of the flat’s closets.

As of this minute, none of those closets were his. Here, now, he owned nothing. Not even his body. Not even his pride. He was Greg’s. If Greg took pride in him, that was pride enough. If Greg enjoyed his body, that was ownership enough.

He stood naked in front of his husband. His master. “Sir.”

“Greg will do. I don’t need all the bells and whistles, remember?”

Indeed, neither needed or wanted all the bells and whistles. They either set them giggling and ruined the mood, or squicked one or the other out.

“Yes, Greg. I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted. Come here, baby.”

Mycroft stepped close, face still down, hands loose at his sides. “Yes, Greg.”

A hand came under his chin, lifting his face. The other hand approached with the scotch glass. “Here. Drink.” The edge of the glass brushed Mycroft’s lips. He sipped, risking a look into Greg’s face.

His lover was calm, considering. He had a plan. He was in charge. He poured another sip down Mycroft’s throat, and another. “For now, you don’t eat or drink anything I don’t give you…and everything I do. Right?”

“Yes, Greg.”

“That’s a sweet boy.” He handed the now-empty glass to Mycroft. “Go pour me more. Bottle’s in the kitchen.”

Mycroft accepted the glass and hurried off, feeling his lover’s eyes watching his body in motion—cock already half roused, balls pulled up tight, nipples jutting, bum tight.

He’d read about “the male gaze.” He’d never quite understood the implications until he discovered this need, and this game. His body existed to please his husband, who owned him. If he failed to please his husband, his body was of no worth. If he succeeded, then he was a worthy possession—something Lestrade would use, again and again, like a favorite record and a well-worn t-shirt. Loved, touched, fondled, serving the purpose Greg chose.

Just thinking about it was almost enough to make him spill the scotch as he poured. Almost enough to make him trip on the carpet as he returned to the parlor.

Lestrade had settled in the big Danish armchair, that looked like a cross between a kite and a throne. It was beautiful design—sturdy, supporting, with room for an orgy and grace enough to frame the dignity of an Emperor. There was a matching stool, suited for a pet to sit on—or an Emperor to prop his feet. A little table to either side of the solid cantilevered arms, ready to hold books, food, whatever.

The table to Lestrade’s right held a riding crop. The table to his left held the entertainment system remote, and the box of toys Mycroft had long-since purchased and trusted to his husband’s care. Their compromise: nothing Mycroft had not himself chosen out of desire and arousal. No one to put those toys to use on his body but Lestrade, at his own whim.

Mycroft held out the drink, cradled in both hands. “Your drink, Greg.”

“Good boy. Put it on the table. No—you don’t need to walk over. I like seeing you stretch and bend.”

Lestrade’s eyes followed, openly lascivious, watching Mycroft’s body.

The gaze…

Mycroft existed to delight his husband’s gaze.

His husband, gazing, desired.

Mycroft existed to satisfy his husband’s desire.

“Do you need to be punished before we start?” Lestrade asked, not looking at the riding crop at all.

Mycroft was not so resolute. His eyes flickered to the crop and back. He licked his lips. “Er…”

“Well?”

He hesitated….

“Tell—or I’ll have to punish you for not telling. You owe me the truth, husband.”

The word was a whip—the first basis for Lestrade’s ownership, the one Mycroft himself had laid out when they’d first talked. He must not lie to his husband, who owned him. Not in this.

“Yes,” he husked, already imagining the crop flashing down on bum and thighs.

“Why? You have to tell me why.”

Again, part of the deal. Lestrade refused to punish him for reasons he had not been told.

“I’ve been resisting this for months,” Mycroft muttered. “Trying not to give in to it.”

“Why? Don’t you trust me?”

“I…Some? Mostly?” Mycroft shrugged, blushing. “I’m always afraid you’d be disgusted with me.”

“And?” Lestrade sounded every inch the stern commanding officer in the MET that he was. “There’s more…”

“It embarrasses me. That I want this. Want it so much I can’t stop thinking about it. Want it enough to…” The embarrassment was powerful, clotting his throat with spit and emotion. “I like being your equal. I’m proud to be your equal. I don’t know why I need to give it up like this. I’m afraid someday you’ll see me as this and nothing else. And—I am embarrassed. Embarrassed you have to see me this way.”

Lestrade’s face was sober, and he obviously gave thought to Mycroft’s confession. After a time he said. “Good reasons for a proper thrashing, baby. You need what you need, and we’ve talked it through before. We’ve found a compromise we both like. And you gain nothing for us by delaying or imagining worse than it is.” He hooked the stool in front of him with one heel, and spun it until the short width lay in front of Mycroft, and the long axis lay ahead of himself. “Lie down on it, hands grabbing the legs of the stool. Spread your thighs good and wide.”

Mycroft did, failing to restrain a whimper.

“Fifteen. Then it’s done unless you ask for it during the week, or unless we agree together you need more for what you’ve done.”

“Yes, Greg.”

He didn’t ask if Mycroft was ready. The crop flashed, struck, the crack rang in the big room, the flexible switch bending to mark down into the valley of his thighs. Mycroft yelped.

“One,” Greg said, steady and remorseless. Mycroft could hear the seconds tick.

“Two.”

Minutes later it was done…and Mycroft was a wreck, crying helplessly as he lay on the stool in front of his husband. He knew his bum was marked with red, raised welts. He also knew that Lestrade had managed the whip perfectly, not breaking skin, not doing lasting damage.

Lestrade turned on the television, grabbed the looped handle of the stool, and pulled stool and Mycroft together up between his knees. As a documentary on the old London manufacturies by the Thames began, he dabbled his fingers in the single malt, and traced the burning welts casually, eyes barely leaving the screen. The liquor burned, and Mycroft whimpered and fought not to writhe too much.

A damp finger found its way past his cheeks, and the alcohol burned the tight ring of his sphincter. He whined again. He panted.

Lestrade chuckled. “Like that, Mikey?”

Mycroft, ashamed, nodded. “Mmmm.”

“Going to enjoy that later. Meanwhile…” He prodded and poked, letting liquid run from the glass down Mycroft’s crack, where it stung the sensitive skin. “My husband. You’re such a hot little slut…aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about it, Mikey. About wanting it for weeks…”

He’d wanted it for so long, fighting it back. It had haunted him in meetings. He’d wanked off to the need in his own private office john. He’d imagined all the things he wanted his beautiful, commanding husband to do to him, take from him, inflict on him. He’d woken in the morning longing to ask his husband to play the game with him, for an hour, for a day, that evening. He’d kept his mouth shut, embarrassed, angry, refusing to surrender to his own weakness.

He told Greg his fantasies, his longing, the morning hard-ons, jerking off in the shower, trying to be Greg’s powerful, dignified husband, not his little piece of arse. As he told Greg, Greg touched him, stroked his body, invaded his privacy, asked no permission.

When they’d reached this agreement, they’d held a second marriage ceremony, private, in this flat. Mycroft had given Greg his second ring, the massive, expensive, powerful ring that screamed of authority. The one that made him not just Mycroft’s peer, but his possessor. They’d signed the wedding contract together, Mycroft first, naked on his knees between Lestrade’s thighs, reaching up to see over the lip of the office desk. Then Lestrade had signed…that careful document Mycroft had drafted, clause after balanced clause, defining the limits and boundaries. They’d folded it and locked it in the flat safe. Then Lestrade had returned them to the desk and fucked Mycroft into the desktop, as Mycroft had requested—and walked away, saying only, “I’d like dinner at six.”

Mycroft had come so hard on those words he’d seen stars and nearly passed out.

So hot. So hot to be used. To be helpless in his husband’s hands. To know he’d never be hurt—but always be punished if he needed it. Always be stripped of all power, if he needed it. Always hang, ashamed, over desks and kitchen tables and parlor stools, always feel his husband’s fingers massaging the painful burn of single-malt into his arse, always be asked to surrender and give himself to be Greg’s forever.

“Crawl up here,” Greg said, and patted his lap. “Sit down good and solid, spanky. I want to know you remember being thrashed.” Mycroft obeyed, settling himself down on his husband’s thighs, rubbing his sore skin against the itchy wool of Lestrade’s trousers. He melted against Lestrade’s chest, and when Lestrade nudged between his thighs he let them fall wide, one leg nearly falling off Greg’s lap entirely.

Single-malt under his foreskin burned. Rubbed against his frenulum—burned! On the skin of his scrotum burned and chilled at the same time. He writhed in place, panting.

“Words, Mikey, lad. Use your words. Your husband expects you to communicate.”

“Hot. Hot. Please, hurts.”

“Should I stop? I know those words, too…”

“No. No safe word. Just—what am I, Greg?”

Greg chuckled. He knew this bit. “Mine. My boy.”

“What am I for?”

“Me. To use.”

“You promise you’ll use me?”

Lestrade gripped tight, tugging just enough too hard to rub in Mycroft’s submission. “Tonight. Hard.”

“Thank you…” He was hard now, with the anticipation of later.

The next hour was spent in Greg’s exploration of Mycroft’s body—and in the deployment of toys. Not big, gaudy ones. But, oh, he loved what was done. An expensive egg on a tough multi-stranded tether, too big, leaving him feeling stretched and owned. A cock-collar that cinched tight behind his bollocks, with a ring for a leash. Sweet, beautiful little screw-on nipple rings like old fashioned costume jewelry, clamped tight to his nipples and glimmering with rhinestones, as though he were a stripper at a cheap strip joint.

“You’re mine, Mike,” Lestrade said, rubbing a warming, stinging gel over his lips. “Feel me own you.”

Mikey did. His husband owned him…ruled him. Thrashed him when he was bad, and touched him however he liked, and used him however he wanted. And Mikey felt so good…even as he cried. Even as he squirmed. Oh, God, it was what he’d wanted.

He ate dinner kneeling at Lestrade’s side, fed a mouthful of this and a dribble of that, licking his husband’s fingers clean, tongue tender, face bowed. The dangles on the nipple rings swung, tugging and hurting just enough. He had no power. He had no dignity.

“Here—bit of steak for you, my wee little slut. Good?”

“Good.”

“What do you want me to do with you later? Anything come to mind?”

“Ask for a blow job. Here. Before I go clean up the kitchen.”

“I see. A meat lolly for dessert.”

“Take me hard, so I gag.”

“I can do that.”

He did.

Mycroft, creeping humbly out to the kitchen, was screaming to come by the time his lover had used him to his heart’s content.

He was so lucky his husband knew how to keep him deprived, Mycroft thought, lingering frantically over the climax he was nowhere close to reaching. This—this was what he’d needed.

No latex. No bondage. No chains. Just his masterful husband, giving him what he’d asked for.

He cleaned the kitchen. Greg sent him to the bathroom with orders to take off all the toys, clean himself completely, enema included, return the toys, find a lube that would leave him feeling hot and helpless—and come to bed.

What they did wasn’t so different from what any lovers did. The only real difference, Mikey thought, was his husband either told him to do it—or made him confess he wanted it.

And that was all the difference in the world, he thought, lying with his face crushed into a pillow, Lestrade’s strong hands forcing his hips down into the mattress as his ass was levered up over the heap of a hard, round buckwheat bolster that aligned his asshole right where Lestrade could hit target over and over without even aiming.

“What do you want, Mikey?”

“Harder. Please, Greg, harder.”

Greg slammed in harder, stretching the skin of Mycroft’s bum, not quite ripping the tender knot of muscle. He leaned over and pinched Mycroft’s nipples. “Whose?”

“Yours.”

“And you?”

“Yours.”

“My what?”

“Your slut.”

“My husband?”

“Yours.”

“And me?”

“The person I belong to.”

Greg had not wanted to be a master, or a sir, or a dom, or whatever. But he’d accepted being hungry little Mikey’s husband—the only man Mikey could let himself belong to. The only man he trusted to use him and let him go, when the need passed.

He made Mycroft sleep at the foot of the bed, under the covers with his face tucked out, his flank Greg’s foot warmer, like a faithful dog.

“Your bitch,” Mycroft had murmured, curling close to those cold toes. Feeling owned. Humbled. Worth only the sexual delight and the power rush he could give his man. The need had not yet even begun to fade—but it was contained, now. He was in Greg’s hands.

The week to come Greg would make Mikey be good—very, very good. A very good boy indeed. And the week would be good, too.

A very good week, indeed.


End file.
